Message-ID: <22239asstr$947549403@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Message-ID: <20000110161514.19410.qmail@hotmail.com> From: "Joanna De Brito" Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed Subject: {ASSM} {Joanna} The Ignominy Run (MF, caution) [2/3] Date: Mon, 10 Jan 2000 19:10:03 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, kelly Standard disclaimer: Over 18s only The Ignominy Run by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com) January 2000 Copyright 2000 Joanna de Brito All commercial rights reserved. Non commercial use of this story is permitted as long as I am kept informed of that use by e-mail and all author and copyright messages remain intact. Part Two "Sarah. Wake up Sarah." I rolled opened my heavy eyes, not really knowing who I was or what had spoken. The voice was interrupting a very pleasant dream. "Wake up. Damn you. Sarah. Do you know what time it is? It's six o'clock. Wake up." I hadn't slept well and it seemed only a matter of minutes since I'd dozed. "What is it? I whined, trying to sit but finding that something was holding me down. My hair was damp and matted. "I need some medicine," the voice said. It was William. "I'm ill." "Ill? Medicine?" I still wasn't thinking straight. What was wrong with William? I discovered that it was the ropes that were preventing me from sitting. How stupid! I was still lashed to the bed. Quickly, I pulled at the knots. "I need you to get me something." William groaned. "From the galley. I haven't slept. The constant motion. I've been sick." That was obvious. I could smell the stench. I hurriedly dressed, the air was putrid, and stepped out into the corridor. How was I going to get to the galley? No William to carry me, who could I ask? Fortunately, I bumped into the Captain on his way from Lord Edward's room. "Good morning," I said, straightening my gown and running my hand through my hair. He returned my greeting. I then reminded him of his promise that first evening to arrange for a crewman to care for my transportation between decks. "William has been caring for this quite faithfully," I said. "He knows his duty. But this morning he isn't at all well." Captain Peters apologized, owning to a complete lapse in memory. He begged that I give him a little time to make the arrangement, and, true to his word, he returned just a few minutes later to inform me that he had asked Mr. Smithson to handle the task. I thanked him. "Oh," he said, with a final recollection. "Give my regards to Mr. Gaskell. And take him some chicken broth. Chicken broth: it works wonders." I thanked him again and prepared myself to be lifted. I am accustomed to being held by men. It is one of the crosses I must bear as a cripple. Half way up the stairs Mr. Smithson's hand slipped and suddenly he had hold of my ass. The Captain by this time had long departed. "Mr. Smithson," I protested. I was expecting him to be embarrassed. This is not the first time such a thing has happened, and when it does, my bearer is always so flustered. Not so, Mr. Smithson. He didn't attempt to move his hand at all. The very opposite, he leaned forward and kissed me firmly on the cheek, grinning broadly, while pinching my behind gently with his fingers. "Mr. Smithson!" I blushed, intensifying my protest. But there was a traitorous warble to my voice. I flushed even more because he had noticed and was enjoying my discomfort. "Don't worry, mam," he said pleasantly. "I'm not one to tell anybody. Your little secret is safe with me." Now I flushed bright red. Damn him! Damn, damn, damn! "You can thank me later," he said. Before I had a chance either to defend myself or retaliate, however, we were on deck. Laughing, he dropped me rather heavily into my chair and then swiveled me in the direction of Lady Caroline. She was supervising the crewmen in filling a large cask. Mr. Smithson moved away, merging into the background. I noticed that, like the previous day, Lady Caroline was moving stiffly and with great discomfort. "Perhaps it was the hardness of her bunk," I suggested, having pushed my chair across the deck. "No," she stuttered, glancing away awkwardly. "No, no. I don't think so." A sailor tried to pass between us. "Excuse me, mam." I pushed myself back, allowing him through. He was carrying a large bucket of seawater, which he poured into the cask. I glanced at it dubiously. The idea had been the Captain's, of course. Lady Caroline had told me about it the previous afternoon following the entertainment with the slaves. "The Captain has declared," she had explained anxiously. "That as there are women on board, there is to be a solemn ceremony to allow us all to bathe. When we are attired in bathing dress and ready to leave our cabins, everyone else will quit the deck, and remain below until we return." I had assumed from her manner that she wasn't overly happy with these arrangements. And neither was Major Brindley. When he heard of it, he had insisted that they be amended so that we bathe individually. He considered it lewd for women to bathe together. A little later Lady Caroline had come searching for me and had found me in the galley surrounded by several open bags of grain. She'd looked round and seeing nobody about, had asked: "Where's cook?" "Asleep," I'd grinned. Looking over my shoulder, she'd seen my bowl of mixed grains. I don't think she had ever cooked in her life. "What's that for?" she'd scowled. "A special recipe," I'd volunteered, tossing in some oatmeal followed by a little rye. "It's something I used to make at home for my sister. I was bored. It's for tomorrow." "Oh." She'd bent down and had whispered in my ear: "Talking of tomorrow. What about the Negro? Will it bother you that he will be there, able to watch us as we bathe?" "No, not at all." She'd nodded. "I spoke with Lord Edward and he is adamant that a Negro doesn't signify." As she'd spoken, she'd been waiting eagerly for my reaction, waiting far too eagerly. "And I spoke with William," I'd said cautiously. "And he said that if I was bothered, he would arrange with the Captain for the man's eyes to be taken out." I'd shuddered, folding over the top of my small bag of rye and sealing it fast. How could anyone be so inhuman? I'd said as much. "Careful," Lady Caroline had warned. She'd watched me pick up the sack of oatmeal and had followed me as I'd carried it back to the store. "Be very careful," she'd said. "Your feelings betray you, Sarah. You're too kind hearted. If I can see that you have a soft spot for the nigger, then maybe others can too. It's depraved, Sarah. A black man and a white woman: depraved." "I don't know what you're talking about," I'd replied huffily, stumbling out of the store. "I don't know at all." All at once I was brought back to the present. Damn it! Here was I day dreaming and forgetting William entirely! He had wanted medicine. He would go mad if I didn't return soon. I turned and picked out Mr. Smithson, waiting by the hatch. I sucked in my pride. "Please," I called, with suitable reserve: "I need medicine for my husband. Could you help me to the galley." Then, as an aside to Lady Caroline: "William is quite ill this morning. I told the Captain and he advised a little chicken broth." She agreed. "There's nothing like a little broth to settle the stomach. Nothing." However, when I went with Mr. Smithson to the galley and found the cook, he had a very different opinion. "If you give him broth, he'll empty both it and everything else through the port hole," he said. "Oh." "Of course," he shrugged with a sly smile. "That might be what you're after...? But no, I tell you what I'll do. I've got some saline drops; they'll do the trick. You give him those and he'll be fine in no time." He opened a cabinet and began rummaging around. Curiously, I stared inside. It was a true magician's treasure chest. Everything was in there. There were herbs for palsy, for the vapours, for headaches. There were powders there to help with stomach cramps, with inebriation and with diarrhea. It contained rat poison, spider's webs and elderflower. Picking through the bottles he found one that he picked up. He read the label, cloves for toothache, no, not that. Suddenly, movement, a large black cockroach ran across the floor and disappeared somewhere behind a large stone jar. It ran so quickly that I had to look twice to make sure I hadn't imagined it. I shivered. I hate cockroaches; I always have. "Ah, here we go," the cook said, picking out a small dropping bottle. He presented it to me with a toothless smile. "That should do the trick." I thanked him, cast a final glance at the stone jar behind which the cockroach had disappeared, and allowed Mr. Smithson to carry me back below deck. When I arrived, everyone was searching for me. "Where have you been?" Lord Edward asked irritably. "The Captain is waiting to give the command to come below." "I'm sorry," I said, pushing myself away from Mr. Smithson and hobbling into my State Room. "I had to get medicine for William." Inside, I found my invalid husband still lying in bed and trying to decide whether he needed to dash for the porthole. I handed him the drops and moved behind a curtain that I had hung in the corner. There, I began to unbutton my dress. "What's this?" William complained. I could imagine him staring irritably at the bottle. "What is this supposed to be? Don't you realize, bitch, that I'm really ill?" "I spoke with both the Captain and the cook," I replied irrelevantly, pulling off my dress and petticoats. This pleased him. "The Captain, eh?" he said. I peeked round the side of the curtain and saw him looking rather agreeably at the bottle. "It's saline," I added, after a pause, pulling my bathing dress over my head. "It was highly recommended." "You mean you're giving me sea-water?" he rasped. "Is that the best you can do? Of what good to me is sea-water?" "These people are sailors," I pointed out. "I'm sure they must know how to cure sea sickness. Major and Mrs. Brindley are much better this morning." He made a noise which I assumed was born of contempt but made no further comment. I fastened myself up and let Mr. Smithson, who was waiting outside my room, know that I was ready. At once, the command was given for the crew to come below. "You are wasted on that man," Mr. Smithson huffed, as he carried me back up the steps. I protested, not at what he had said, but because he had a large bunch of keys that hung from his belt and these were digging into my side. "I heard what he called you. He has no right," Mr. Smithson added. I assumed that he must have heard all of my conversation with William. I must be more careful. The canvas curtain between our State Room and the corridor is not much of a barrier. However, I still couldn't allow him to talk about William like that. "That man, as you call him," I said icily, "is my husband." "That man," he exclaimed angrily, "is a dog." "Mr. Smithson!" "I'm sorry, mam, but as I find, I judge." "But you have no right to judge him! No man has. That is the prerogative of the Almighty, and only the Almighty." I'm not sure that I actually believed what I was saying, but, whatever his faults, William was still my husband. It was my duty to defend him. I certainly couldn't gainsay him in front of others. Mr. Smithson looked at me darkly, considering his reply. "I disagree, mam," he dissented with assumed politeness. "If I were to do what Mr. Gaskell has done, then I would be brought before the Captain and brought to account. Are you saying that the Captain doesn't have that right? That he should leave things to God? If you are, then there can never be any justice on this side of paradise." I sighed. This wasn't the time for such an argument. The whole crew were down below waiting for me to bathe. Any conversation with Mr. Smithson could take place later, not now. I tried to conclude the conversation. "My husband is a man of honour," I said. He shook his head. "You think so, mam? Then I pity you. I pity you, most truly." Whatever it was that he knew, it was offending Mr. Smithson's sense of decency. William, what have you done this time? "It is not your business," I insisted. "I don't mean to offend, but things to do with my husband are either his business or my business. It belongs to no one else. Please Mr. Smithson, whatever it is that you have heard or seen, please forget it." "I disagree, mam. It's my job to know what goes on, up and down this ship, and it isn't always pleasant. This isn't just the business of you and your husband, with respect, mam. You ask him what he was doing below deck, for instance, with Lord Edward and Lady Caroline. You ask him, the first night we set sail, after the slaves were on board and we'd set sail. I saw it, mam. They didn't see me, none of them, but I saw them." "Lady Caroline?" It was a reflexive question. That first night? I remembered William looking down Lady Caroline's cleavage, also the length of time it had taken her to find him, and how they had flirted over the dinner table. I knew William well enough to be able to have a reasonable guess at what had happened afterwards. I remembered just how long he'd been that night and how I had fallen asleep before he had returned to bed. Mr. Smithson was very indignant. "Or perhaps you would prefer me to tell the Captain what they were doing?" "No, Mr. Smithson. Please, don't do that." I'm not sure I could have stopped him from telling me what had happened even if I'd tried. He needed to tell someone what he'd seen, and he wanted that person to be me. I think he quite liked me. Much better that he tell me than anyone else. He correctly interpreted my silence as assent. "We had just set sail," he began, fidgeting and moving back and forth. "It was on one of the lower decks, just above the hold. Mr. Gaskell was playing cards with Lord Edward and they were gambling. They're both skilled at it, I think. Very strange wagers they were having too. Lady Caroline was there, as well as one of the slaves from the hold. A very buxom girl she was, big tits, still in her irons with her hands behind her back, naked she was. "Lady Caroline was all nervous, because Lord Edward kept losing. She kept fretting, telling Lord Edward what a jackass he was and how he was gambling her, that is, Lady Caroline's honor. But I could tell, the way she said it, that she didn't really mean it. "Anyhow, I guess Lord Edward must have lost because they took the slave girl back and put her in the hold, and it was Lady Caroline that was all blushing and nervous. Mr. William told her to stand in front of him and Lord Edward. He made her stretch and bend while taking off all her clothes. "They made her do embarrassing things, disgusting things, real bad disgusting like sit on Mr. William's lap in only her drawers and her shift; like let Mr. William suck on her tits. But it was just a game to her, I could tell. She was liking it, getting real hot. Anyhow, soon they had her butt naked, and then Mr. William made her bend double and open her legs so he could see everything she'd got. I could see too. It wasn't that I meant to look, but I had to, mam. If I'd left, they might have seen me, and then they would have known that I was looking. You do see that, don't you, mam?" I brought him back to his story. "So you carried on watching?" "Yes, mam. That's right. I did. It was then that Mr. William asked Lady Caroline, he asked her, mam, he asked her whether she knew how much she was showing, and what it was that she was doing to him. She said no, she didn't know. Then Mr. William told her that she was showing her pussy, and that she was no better than a whore. He said she was a bad girl for making him all excited and making him forget that he was a married man with a wife waiting for him in his State Room. Lord Edward said it too. So then he took a birch and swished her ass again and again until it was red raw. She screamed and yelped. I thought everyone would hear, but even if they did, they wouldn't have minded, they would have thought it was just one of the slaves. "When he'd finished, Mr. William kept her bending there, shaking and crying. He told her she didn't deserve to get up, and he got out his cock. It was as hard like an iron pipe and he stood behind her, looking at her quivering ass and telling her how bad she was. He kept stroking himself until he came all over her soft hide. It didn't take him long: he'd wanted to hurt her, if you get my meaning, mam. I could see that. He'd enjoyed hitting her: he'd got off on it. He spurted big white globules that splattered all across her raw red ass and dripped down her legs. Then he rubbed his come into her crack and also into her pussy lips with his finger..." "Enough!" I demanded. I held up the palm of my hand in an emphatic stop gesture. Maybe he wanted, needed to tell me. Maybe he was disgusted, but then, maybe not. Whatever the case, I really couldn't allow him to continue saying these things to me. There was only so much that I could take. >From his surprised and disappointed expression, I assumed that there was much more the helpful Mr. Smithson had yet to reveal, but he had already told me more than I was prepared to cope with. "Thank you," I said, forcing myself to smile. "But, yes, please, enough. Of course, I know you won't breathe a word of what you've, what you've seen in the course of your duties, you won't breathe a word of any of it to anyone." "No, mam." "Thank you, Mr. Smithson." I heaved a huge sigh and waited for him to retire below stairs. As he left I could see what a tent his erection was making within his breeches. ****** A week after we were married, I caught William with the chambermaid. "Caught" isn't really the correct word. I'm not fast enough on my feet to catch anything. He called me upstairs. Since I was downstairs at the time, I couldn't get to him quickly. I had to wait several minutes to find a servant capable of carrying me up the stairs. I was being placed in my chair when I heard William's booming voice calling me again. "What's keeping you, darn it?" His voice was coming from my own bedroom. "I'm coming," I puffed, pushing myself along the corridor. I opened the heavy bedroom door and propelled myself in. Then I saw them. They were in bed together: together in my bed. "Come here, Sarah," William ordered. He was smiling, but it was a new smile, unpleasant, cruel, and malevolent. He was also drunk. A bottle of his best brandy stood half empty in his hand. I looked at him. I saw her. There was a sheet covering them both but it was obvious that neither of them were wearing anything. I hesitated. "I told you to come here," he barked, his nostrils flaring and his fists clenched. Nervously I pushed my chair forward. Triumphantly, he lifted the covers from off the girl. She lay rigid on my bed, naked, shivering with fear, her young breasts and belly exposed expressly for my humiliation. I forced myself to look lower, closer. Her legs were open. I guessed William was forcing her to lie like that. I supposed that it gave him some perverse thrill, making her exhibit herself to me. Oh no! There was a splash of blood staining the sheet immediately below the crack between her legs. I felt sick, disgusted with myself and with him. And all at once, I also felt sorry for the girl. She was so young. An innocent. She was caught up in this monster's web equally much as I. Were we so very different, she and I? He was abusing her every bit as much as he was abusing me. What choice does a young chambermaid have if the master takes a fancy to her? To whom can she complain? What choice does she have if he summons her to his room and orders her to undress? If she refuses then she will end up on the street, homeless, penniless, to be used and abused by each and every passerby. If she accepts, then she is beholden to only the one man. What choice does she have if he makes her climb into bed with him? And then takes it as his privilege to fuck her? What if he tells her that if she doesn't do it willingly, then he will tie her to the bed and force her; if he tells her that the magistrate is married to his sister. Can she refuse? Can she really? But I still hated her. "Touch her," William ordered, waving his bottle. I drew back in horror. What was he saying? This was my chambermaid. How could I? "Feel her breasts," he slurred. "Touch them, caress them." I've tried so often to get inside William's head, to discover what it is that motivates him to be so cruel and merciless. Is it fear? Is it jealousy? Is it revenge for horrors that he faced in his own childhood or at school? Or is it simply the alcohol? For what sins am I paying? His face hardened, his brow narrowed. "Do it, Sarah. I order you! Touch her. Caress her breasts. If you disobey me..." I didn't cry; neither did I scream. In no way did I act rashly, that's not in my nature. I did what he asked me, _everything_ that he asked me. I reached out and touched that poor girl's breasts, just as he commanded. They were soft and warm and not at all unpleasant to my touch. William taught me that day what it is that a woman likes. I'm not proud of the manner of my learning, but I learned the lesson well. Afterward, I went downstairs and found a quiet corner where I brooded. I imagined William lying in bed and me with a knife, or with poison, then with an axe. Each of these ideas in its turn brought me some comfort before I sadly dismissed them all as being far too humane. ****** It was strange being on the deck alone, normally there is such hustle and bustle. At first it was quite daunting: I wondered whether it was safe for the Ignominy to be sailing unaided. What if we hit land or encountered pirates intent on rape and pillage? One reads of such things, and last night, I overheard the crewmen telling stories to each other. I was sitting on the main deck in the darkness, staring up at the sky, with my shawl wrapped round me to keep out the cold. The sea was flat and the wind non- existent. I was remembering past happy days with my parents and with my sister: pleasant memories, fond memories. A group of four sailors were playing cards by the light of a single lamp. They were further along the deck, just below me. I could see them clearly, the dancing yellow light glancing across their bearded faces. I could hear them too. There was one, from his accent I assumed he must come from Norfolk or Suffolk - East Anglia anyhow - who began to excite the others with the most fearsome tale. He said that soon we must enter a channel frequented by the most fearsome French brigands. "They want money and will stop at nothing to get it," he explained. "There was one ship they captured where the Captain was obstinate. They nailed him to the deck," the man whispered with glee. My stomach turned over. How could they talk of such things? I would have left and gone below deck except that there was no one to carry me. The man hadn't finished his story. "That's nothing to what they did to the women," he hissed. He had the others spellbound. They were hanging onto his every dreadful word. "What did they do?" someone asked impatiently. "They brought them all onto deck," the man continued in his strange Norfolk accent. "And they stripped them all down, you know, made them undress: there were petticoats and shifts galore, my what a sight. And on top of that all that woman flesh, jumping and bobbling as naked tit meat does. Anyhow, when they were naked, they made them walk up and down, then faster, they made them run so their tits bounced up and down and their asses shook like you wouldn't believe. And these were posh ladies, all genteel, not your normal commoners: real ladies." >From the gloom I heard the sound of a disappointed disembodied voice. "Is that all?" it said. "Blimey, didn't they do anything else? If that was me I would have got them to do more than just run." I wasn't sure which of the others had spoken, but the account obviously wasn't salacious enough for this man's taste. The storyteller grew thoughtful. He wasn't to be defeated. His voice became more animated. "No," he resumed, with sudden glee. "That was just the beginning. After they'd stripped the ladies naked, they took hold of 'em, posh ladies every one of them, and they tied them all up. All the men lined up and they all took a turn. Them ladies was raped by near enough every one of those brigands, the more holes the merrier, and when it was all over..." He made a quick movement with his hand across his throat. I blinked back a tear and tried to ignore them. Why are men so insensitive? Major Brindley says it's all fanciful nonsense, that men make up lurid stories as a way of passing the time and creating a little excitement for themselves. He says that nothing untoward can happen in the time that it takes us to bathe and that I should forget all about pirates and brigands. I guess that he's probably right. He told me in his cheeky way that I have more to worry about from the rats. I have seen the odd rat. They dart, seemingly from nowhere, and then dash at full speed across the deck before vanishing through some crack never again to be seen. Normally, they don't frighten me, but on the deck alone, without any crew, I must admit that I am anxious. Dear God, Sarah, stop thinking about those pirates. It may make a handsome fantasy, but right now they're a bit too close to reality. ****** I cowered behind the cask, trying to make myself look small and inconspicuous. The faces of the pirates gleamed ghastly and ghostly in the flickering light of their handheld lamps. The bitter smell of discharged cordite poisoned the night air. The Captain lay slumped against the rail moaning softly. A nervous glance suggested he could not survive very long. The second mate, Mr. Smithson, was also dead, slumped within the cask immediately in front of me, face down. Drowned, I guessed, by the look of him. >From below there was a shriek of delight followed by a shrill cry of protest. Moments later Lady Caroline was bustled up onto deck at the behest of three sun burned brigands, pulling her robe about her and being chased into the arms of a wiry buccaneer. Lord Edward followed seconds later, holding up his unfastened breeches. I saw that the pirate bore a horrific scar across the whole of the left side of his face. He tried to force an unwanted kiss upon Lady Caroline and then fell about laughing at her hysterical screams. I knew from all the sailor's tales who this man was. His name was Whitescar, and all the sailors held him in great fear. Whitescar leered at Lady Caroline. "A real British Lady," he whispered, stepping back and idling a full circle around her. She was clasping her gown to her bosom, breathing heavily, not knowing where to look. I could see that underneath she was wearing her blue cambric nightgown. Her cap had been dislodged and her chestnut hair fell in an untidy heap upon her shoulders. Not much here to protect fair modesty. Whitescar grinned. He was missing several teeth and wore an eye patch over his left eye, bridging that horrible scar. It was a dreadful malicious grin that made me feel faint. I clasped the cask more firmly. He was carrying a dagger in one hand, a cutlass in the other. With the point of the latter, he plucked at Lady Caroline's cap, flicking it from her head. "Well," he teased. "I think our lady is a little overdressed. What do you think, boys." There was a loud roar of approval. They seemed drunk, but I smelled no drink. He moved closer to Lady Caroline's face. "So guess what, my lady. It's time for you to take off your things." She shook her head slowly. I could smell her fear. Whitescar's grin didn't break. It just became colder and more malevolent. "Maybe I didn't make myself clear," he said, turning his back on her, turning to his cronies and speaking those words he knew they were most eager to hear. "I didn't offer you a choice. No m'lady, I ordered you to undress. It's me that gives the orders now. So, do it, m'lady, do it now. If not, we'll feed your husband to the fish." Lady Caroline gasped and cast a quick glance at Lord Edward. "I can't," she wailed. "Don't, please don't make me." Whitescar made a short impatient gesture and suddenly where Lord Edward had been standing by the rail, there was no one. He fell without a sound, without a scream. One moment he was there, the next he was gone. Lady Caroline shrieked. Like me, she couldn't believe what had just happened. "Edward," she screamed. Then she turned to Whitescar in horror. "Murderer! Bastard! My God! Edward!" Each of these words received its focus. Each was hurled with the fury of a burning missile. Whitescar was unabashed. He took the full weight of each insult broadsides on. The curl of his thin lips remained frozen in a cruel smile. "Shall we try again," he suggested, that smile slowly broadening. "I never bluff," he said. "I never shout. I don't need to. Are you going to undress, or do you require a little more persuasion?" Lady Caroline didn't need telling again. Hurriedly her fingers began to tussle with the fabric of her gown. A sudden thought. I looked around, searching the shadows. I couldn't see William. Where was he? I couldn't see him anywhere. I did see Mrs. Brindley. Pirates were holding each of her arms; someone had rent her bodice apart and her breasts had come tumbling out. So large, big and heavy, quivering in the fluttering shadows. The Major stepped forward, grabbed a sword from the hand of a butchered corpse and charged to her rescue. There was the clatter of steel upon steel, such a hero, the Major, then the slicing of flesh, a gasp of agony. What had happened? So difficult to see. The knees of an old pirate buckled, bubbles of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth and trickled down his chin: merciful heavens, dear God, oceans of blood, hallowed be thy name... He collapsed to the deck. The Major was after another. His bloody sword swung, felling a second man, almost severing him in two. His blood splattered across Mrs. Brindley's face, sprayed across her chest, and dribbled down her bosoms. Lead us not into temptation, thy will be done in heaven... The man muttered, grimaced, and died. Thine is the kingdom and the power... The Major never saw it coming. I wanted to shout; I knew what was going to happen, but courage had deserted me. The Major raised his sword for a third time; he had vengeance in his vision and cowards at his back. One of them stepped forward and from behind sank his cutlass into the Major's side, twisting it, piercing his guts and his kidneys. Amen... Mrs. Brindley's eyes were agony, opened wide, suffering his wounds. She was wretched, pitiable, tormented. As she looked upon her felled husband, and the scum that had murdered him, I know what she saw. She was staring with certainty at a better fate. For Whitescar was there, cutlass in hand, laughing and jesting, taking hold of a decanter of port to celebrate his conquest. I recognized it. It was William's. Dear God, where was William? What had become of him? I searched out the shadows of the deck once more. Whitescar lifted the decanter to his lips and swigged at the bloody liquid. Was William right now lying murdered in his bed? Was that where he was? Whitescar handed the decanter to another equally drunk reveler. I looked again at Mrs. Brindley. "Rats," she mouthed. I was confused. "Rats?" There was a pirate now under her skirts. Dear God, what was he doing under there? He must be between her legs. She grimaced from the hidden pain. Dear God, what vile torture was even now being perpetrated upon her secret crevices? Someone else bit upon her nipple. She screamed. She could no longer take the weight of them both and she overbalanced, falling backwards. Neither could she speak; they were all over her, stripping her, forcing her, violating her. Yes, indeed. Rats. Between Mrs. Brindley and myself were the rabble swaggering about Lady Caroline. They were pushing and shoving, a couple of them were applauding, one made obscene gestures while another maliciously punctured her nightgown with the tip of his cutlass, cutting a tear square across her front, along the underside of her breasts. She stepped instinctively away from him but fell towards the lurking hands behind her. Suddenly there was an awful drunken cry that sang out into the night: "Strip the bitch! Do it! Come on! Strip her!" It sent shivers down my spine, so awful, so violent, yet I could do nothing to help. I clung petrified to the cask, not daring to run, not daring to stay, all the time knowing that I was next, that they were sure to turn their attentions upon me, that what I was watching was simply a portent of my own dreadful end. Lady Caroline hysterically clawed at the menacing hands groping her, that were grabbing and pulling at her nightgown. She struggled to get free, to get away. She screamed, a terrible pitiful cry, it was followed at once by a deep hollow laugh. There was a tearing of cloth, a ripping of thread. Screeching, screaming: shreds of torn white linen flew through the air, falling as if in slow motion upon the shoulders of unshaven smiling monsters. I saw a glimpse of her bare breast through the crowd, flashing in the light of the flickering lamps, then I saw her bare butt bearing the fading stripes of a bad beating, being clasped, being held by a dirty, large hand. Her legs were pulled open; someone pushed a fist inside. About me there was bedlam: screaming, cheering, and hoots of derision. There was sawdust, fighting, gunpowder, blood, and deadliest of all, there were small splinters of wood, sharp, awful and wicked. Lady Caroline was being held, she was bent double, her legs slightly apart, her butt lewdly displayed. Whitescar was approaching; his tool was exposed and ready for marauding. Dear God, poor Lady Caroline! Please spare her, forgive her her trespasses, ease now her pain... I put my hands to my ears to cover her screams. Doesn't he know, Whitescar? Surely he must! That's not even the right hole. ****** The cask stood directly in front of me in the middle of the deck. I took a deep breath. It was unattended and there was a good deal of water spilled all around. Only five yards or so away was the disruptive Negro, sitting on a small stool. The Major had brought it for him, as well as a length of gray sackcloth for him to cover himself. At first there was a big protest and lots of complaints, but with William ill, all that seemed to have gone away. The Negro had his back against the main mast and was staring at me through his large doleful eyes. I sighed. Why did they have to put the cask so close to him? This was going to be difficult. I pushed my chair slowly, self-consciously the short distance towards the cask. When I reached it, I pulled myself up, letting the cask take my weight, and I dipped my hand in its water. It was freezing. Dear Jesus, what should I do? I couldn't bathe with him sitting there watching me. It would be too mortifying. Then I recalled with horror what William had said, without conscience or emotion, about removing the man's eyes if his presence bothered me. But what did it matter, I asked myself. William was not here. So, how would he know? There was no one watching, everyone had retired. William would never find out. Or would he? Could I really ever be sure about William? What if I were wrong? What if someone was watching me? Right at this very moment? That would be just like William: to set his spies to catch me. I looked around nervously. Nothing. No one was there apart from the poor Negro in front of me. I glared at him and in return was met by such pathos that my gaze softened. This man was exhausted; he was cold; he was hungry. Yet behind all these things I could feel his determination to survive, I could see it on his face, in his posture. He hadn't given up; he had hope. So where was mine? How stupid I was being over such a little matter: this Negro's existence. What were my problems compared to his? How could my mental anguish be of any consequence when compared against the physical anguish of this poor wretch? I was determined that his presence should not bother me. I began to wash, first my face, then my hands and forearms. I did so quickly, hurriedly, with the bulk of the cask standing between the two of us. I felt so awkward already. And all the time he kept looking at me. Each time I looked up I saw that same look of undisguised admiration - I'm sure that I don't flatter myself here - that left me muddled and confused. I unbuttoned the front of my bathing dress and reached inside, carefully soaping my breasts. Suddenly, he reached into the cloth that girded his loins, the cloth that the Major had found for him, and hooked out his black flaccid penis. For a moment I saw it without seeing, it was so bizarre the way that he revealed it, almost as if he were showing it to me. I gasped. I felt so humiliated and embarrassed, and I didn't know why. He had sat there for almost two days entirely naked, so it wasn't even the surprise of seeing his penis. I had seen it before. But this act of exposing himself, why had he done it? I could only interpret the action as being inspired by a sexual interest. I hated him and I hated William for making me wash in front of him. Dear God, the man really was a savage. Quickly, hurriedly, I collected my things, jumped into my chair and hurled myself across the deck toward the stairs. I yelled down for Mr. Smithson. "Quick. Take me, at once, please, take me to my room." Mr. Smithson came up at once. I saw him glance suspiciously over my shoulder at the Negro. Fortunately, by this time the obscene cock had been placed behind the thick sackcloth and so I didn't have to explain. Only when I got to my State Room did I realize that my bathing dress was still unbuttoned. Dear God, and Mr. Smithson had seen me like that! Just how much had he seen? I rushed inside, thankful that William was too preoccupied with his own anxieties to pay attention to me. Behind the curtain as I caught my breath, I barely had the wherewithal to call through the wall to Mrs. Brindley that I was finished. Dear God, what had I done? For most of that morning I stood in my bathing dress with the buttons undone. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, turning and twisting, trying to ascertain just how much of an eyeful I had presented to the second mate. I flushed at the result. I was quite certain he must have been able to see most of my naked breasts. What must he think of me? Yet gradually my thoughts calmed, and returned to the Negro and his cock. Why had he done that? Why had he pulled it out? If it had been erect then maybe I might have understood him. But what had he expected me to do? Did he want me to touch it, to feel it, or was he only expecting me to look? I was shocked, and yet at the same time I was also pleasantly flattered: such confused feelings. Dear God. If William had not been there in his bed suffering so much, I know for certain what I would have done to ease my anguish. However, as he was there, the fire continued to burn in my belly. ****** Late that day, the two other lady passengers, Lady Caroline and Mrs. Brindley promenaded the deck with me as their companion. There was nothing much to do, and we were bored. For a while we watched some sailors. These spent much of their free time dancing hornpipes or jigs. Others were to be seen sitting near the galley playing cards or backgammon while waiting for their next unappetizing meal. Mrs. Brindley pushed me slowly passed the dancing sailors towards the bow and my Negro. I was nervous at returning to that part of the deck after what had happened that morning, but I couldn't think of any reasonable excuse to keep away, not without rousing the suspicion of my companions. They brought me to a halt about ten yards from the main mast. Our attention soon focused on the piece of sackcloth that inadequately covered his groin. "Does the Major really think it makes any difference to a savage whether he is clothed or unclothed?" Lady Caroline inquired ruefully. "What is modesty to a beast?" Mrs. Brindley laughed. She is quite attractive when she laughs. "I think," she said. "That he considers it inappropriate for a lady of breeding to be forced to look upon any man's manhood, savage or otherwise." "Shame," Lady Caroline murmured, flapping her fan furiously and glancing slyly towards me. She winked. At once, I didn't know what to do with myself. I prayed that the Negro wouldn't repeat his trick of that morning and expose himself. That would make my mortification complete. Lady Caroline continued to bait me by observing that she had heard that there were Negroes whose "thing" could grow to the size of a forearm. My jaw must have dropped, or, maybe I reacted in some other way, I'm not sure. I did something, because Mrs. Brindley vexed me by adding in a reassuring tone that I needn't fret, because "it" would only harden for a black bitch. Standing behind her, Lady Caroline was barely able to conceal her mirth. Then, both ladies agreed that this was a fact, for certain, only for a black bitch, and then Lady Caroline fluttered her fan frenetically in delight. I blushed bright red. I kept thinking that he might be able to understand them. He was so close he could certainly hear. If he pulled "it" out from the sackcloth just as he had done that morning, then he was certain to be beaten. Dear God, please, don't let that happen. He is so weak. I am sure he wouldn't be able to bear it. "Sarah is shocked," Lady Caroline laughed from behind her fan. "I can see that she thinks us quite common." An image flashed through my mind. I didn't ask for it, it came of its own accord. It was Lady Caroline naked, bending over for my husband, while he shot his wad across her stinging ass. I had an urge to ask whether this was the behavior of a true lady, or whether she was in fact "quite common", but I bit my tongue. That would be an act just as cruel as the original birch with which she had been flogged. Never mind, it doesn't signify. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Mrs. Brindley took hold of my arm, and whispered confidentially into my ear. "The man is a Negro," she said. "There is no need to feel uneasy. Negroes, you see, are not civilized at all." So we are civilized? Is that what she was saying? Was it civilized to be talking in front of this man about the possible size of his member? I, for one, was at that moment not feeling very civilized at all. A wicked had thought crossed my mind; I'd dismissed it instantly but it had found its home and it insisted on returning. The thought was simple: I wondered what this Negro would make of a white bitch. ****** The week before we set sail, James Russell, William's best friend called upon me. I knew him already because he had been a member of William's wedding party. We had also met several times since then. James was tall and broad and I had liked him at once. A liking that may also be partly due to the fact that he had approached me shortly after the wedding service. He had kissed my hand, looked into my radiant face and had declared that I was the prettiest lady he had ever had the good fortune to meet, a compliment that made it difficult for me not to like him later. He was engaged in matrimony to a young lady from Biddulph named Molly Barton. She was the eldest daughter of a clergyman. Despite this attraction - or perhaps because of it, if William is to be believed. He said Miss Barton has the face of a hippopotamus - James was still a frequent caller at Greystone Park. His manner was easy and free. In fact, truth to say, he had become my only real friend in Derbyshire. It was still early, that morning of his call, and I was practicing my French "devoirs". William was in town on business. "I'm afraid you've had a wasted journey," I explained, as the maid brought in some tea. "William has gone into Buxton". He waited until the tea was poured and the maid had left. "Yes," he said, somewhat tersely, tentatively sipping his tea. There was something on his mind. I waited patiently for him to continue. At last he did. "Did you know that William is in debt?" I shook my head. "If it is about money then you will need to speak to William." James repeated the question. He was so earnest that he frightened me. "But did you know that William is in debt?" "No. William doesn't tell me anything of his finances." He grimaced. "As I thought. But I think you should know, Sarah. You should know that William has heavy gambling debts, very heavy debts. He owes a lot of money to a lot of people, to a lot of very important people." "I'm sorry," I insisted. "But it really does have nothing to do with me. You will need to speak to William." "I'm sorry too," James apologized. "You see, if his fortunes don't change quickly, then he will have no option, he will be forced to flee, to flee the country." I looked down. What could I say? The words meant so little. "I see." "That will mean disgrace for him. Do you understand, Sarah? It will be the end. He will be ruined." "Is there nothing... is there absolutely nothing that can be done?" "I don't know." He sighed. "It isn't promising. He did hope to shorten his losses, until at least he should come by your money." "My money?" This was news. I knew of course, about my legacy, that I would come into a small amount of money on my twenty first birthday. My mother's father had bestowed it on me. This money must now, naturally, go to William as my husband. But it wasn't a large sum. I hadn't realized that William was in need of it, was anticipating its arrival. James was blunt. "Sarah. I'm sorry. The need for money was a spur to William's search for a good match." Is that all I was to him? A good match? A source of finance? "But William won't come into my money yet, not for another fifteen months," I argued. James nodded. "There's a short term deficit," James agreed. "One or two of us are trying to forestall William's creditors, begging them to give William more time. There is one man in particular; his name is Sir Michael Chamberlain. I have tried to talk with him, to reason, but he will not budge. He is determined to bring William to bankruptcy." I clasped my hands in my lap; my palms were sweaty. "But why? What has William done? Why does this man hate William so much?" "He doesn't hate William," James assured me. "To him it is all just a simple business enterprise, nothing more, nothing less." "Then we are ruined?" "I'm afraid so," James sighed, somberly. He paused. "There is..." "Yes?" "There is one possibility." James explained that William had tried one last time the previous week to shift Sir Michael from his adamancy. Sir Michael had finally agreed to an extension, conditional on a single payment of extraordinary interest." "But that's excellent news," I exclaimed. James helped me to understand. "It's not good news. It's bad news. I tried to deter William, to make him think again, but he insisted. By extraordinary interest Sir Michael means that he will come round here and you will provide him with entertainment. Do you understand me, Sarah? Sir Michael isn't referring to afternoon tea. He wants you, he wants you to make him happy." I was stunned. "And William agreed to this?" James nodded without looking at me. He didn't like his role as messenger, I could tell that. He was embarrassed, embarrassed for me, and embarrassed by what he had just had to say. "It provides William with a solution to his present difficulties," he explained. "I see." I stared out into the garden. It was pouring with rain, beating against the windows. The skies were gray and ominous. He rose. "I'm sorry, Sarah. You just don't know..." I smiled weakly. "Oh don't worry about me," I said, putting on my bravest face. "I am quite sure that I shall survive." Tears were forming in my eyes. "Worse things have been known to happen to a woman, you know. And if it means that William can keep Greystone Park, his honour, and his friends, then I am sure it will all be for the best." James bent down and kissed me softly on the forehead. His voice was hoarse and strangled. "William doesn't deserve you," he said. I took hold of his hand. "James," I begged. "Dear James, if it is to be..." I couldn't escape the notion that William had married me solely as a solution to his financial difficulties. Again a longing for revenge filled me, and with it came the germ of an idea. William had done a lot to educate me during the past couple of months. I am a fast learner and it was now time to make use of my education. I tenderly caressed James' hand. "It is so important that I do everything right for Sir Michael," I said. "I'm not sure that I can. Will you, will you allow me to practice?" He stared at me silently for some seconds, then lifted me out of my chair, took me in his arms, and hugged me tight. "Are you sure?" "Quite sure." James was a perfect gentleman. Or at least, as much of a gentleman as he could possibly be given the circumstances. Certainly, far more of a gentleman than William had ever been. For some minutes we sat and stared at each other, both of us at a loss as to what to do, or how to begin. In the end I forced myself to break the ice. "Sir Michael, sir," I opened, rather nervously. "I know why you are here. Of course, I must obey my husband's wishes; I must do what he expects of me. So, please, excuse me, but I am putty within your hands. Please, what would you like me to do?" James explained softly that Sir Michael wouldn't ask to fuck me. He was an old Catholic, with a well-connected wife and a stern priest. He wouldn't care to pay the penance for adultery. He was a man inclined to tailor his sins to the price he would be called upon to pay. "What then will he want of me?" I asked hesitantly. I'm not sure whether I was relieved or not. My thinking was in such a muddle. James considered. "Go over by the fire," he commanded. "Make yourself comfortable." I shuffled awkwardly across to the fire, crackling softly behind me. As I did so, Sir Michael closed the sitting room door and turned the key in the lock. He sat down in the large armchair, William's chair, and pulled an oversized white handkerchief from his coat pocket. He lay it over his lap like a large serviette. Next, he loosened his neck cloth and the belt of his breeches. I sucked in my breath. "James?" Sir Michael glowered at me, pulling a small, engraved silver snuffbox from his pocket. He flicked it open, and took a small pinch of snuff between his short stubby fingers. "You understand," he said thickly. "That I expect a great deal from you, today." I still had no idea what he wanted, and he was scaring me. There was a fluttering in my stomach and a tightening in my chest that was worse than any corset. He dusted his fingertips using the edges of the handkerchief and then put away his snuffbox. "You are a very pretty woman," he said, sticking his left hand underneath the handkerchief and then squirming somewhat in the chair. "And I should know. I have seen a good many fillies in my years." "Thank you, Sir Michael." I blushed. Should I have said that? Should I have thanked him? In the end I had done so because the compliment was genuine, if very improper. But everything I was doing was improper. Even the fact that Sir Michael had locked the door was improper. If any of the servants happened by... "Now," he said, looking at me carefully through his eyeglass. "I want you to try and forget that I'm here. You will hear my voice, but I want you to pretend that it's your own thoughts that you're hearing, that I'm not in this room with you at all. Can you do that?" "I don't know," I answered honestly, my heart beating fast. "I can try." "But you'll be truthful with me. Whatever I ask, you'll answer me honestly?" "Yes." I'll do it for you, James. You are my friend. I'll answer you truthfully, whatever you ask. But I don't know whether I could be as honest with Sir Michael. His hand was moving steadily underneath the cloth. I watched it rise and fall, rise and fall. "Are you in love with William?" I drew in my breath sharply. I don't know what I was expecting, but I wasn't counting on him asking me about William. It wasn't right for him to ask or for me to answer. But I had promised. "The truth now," he insisted. I hardly mouthed my answer. "No." "Have you ever loved him?" That same movement of my lips. "No." "Then you have a lover?" I shook my head. "Would you want a lover?" I shook my head, and then remembered my promise. "I don't know," I mumbled. "I shouldn't." "An imaginary lover, perhaps. A man who comes to you in your dreams and whispers sweet promises of love and of a life together in paradise." He waited. I realized it was supposed to be a question. "Maybe. But it won't happen." "You think not? But he is here, within this room. There is a man who loves you greatly. He can see you right now." Standing so close to the fire I was becoming very hot. I could feel it through my dress and my clothes. What was James, Sir Michael, saying? I wanted to step away from the fire and cool down, but when I tried it, he made me return to the spot I had just vacated. "I can't see him," I murmured, playing along and looking around the room. "No, you are wrong," he contradicted. "You certainly can see him. Seeing is not the problem; it's speaking that is the problem. You can see, but you can not talk to him. And if you did, then, then he wouldn't be able to hear you. Do you understand me, Sarah?" I shook my head. I didn't understand at all. It was so hot by the fire. It was becoming difficult for me to concentrate, to hear what James was telling me. "Your lover has dreams too. In fact, he is dreaming right now. He is asleep and in his dreams he is searching for you. Sarah, you must find him. He is there, somewhere in your dream, just as you are present in his. He is searching, ah, there he is. He has found you. He can see you now, touch you even, but in your dreams there is no noise, he exists in a world of silence. He cannot hear you, or the fire, or even what I am saying to you now. Do you understand me now?" This time I nodded. I wasn't sure that I did understand, but it seemed the right thing to do. "So you can speak quite openly," James suggested. "You can speak with complete honesty. This lover of yours won't hear anything of what you say." "No." James leaned forward, too eagerly. "Do you love him, the lover in your dreams?" "Yes." I was beginning to understand. "Yes," I said again, more eagerly. "Yes, James. I love him very much. More than ever he'll know." He smiled. "Then you must show him how much you love him. Otherwise he will pass on and be gone forever. You must declare your love to him now. You must show him not only that you love him, but also how much you need him." "Help me," I begged. "Show me how." I was burning. "It is easy," he explained. "You must undress. You must take off everything. You must do it slowly, sensuously. Your dress and your petticoats." I was watching the hand under that large white handkerchief. Slowly, methodically it moved up and down. "You must do it in front of him, while he watches. Your pink corset and your silk stockings." The way he was looking at me, staring at me. I felt so naked with him looking at me like that. How did he know what I was wearing? "You must not hide anything, the very opposite. You must delight in showing him your vulnerability. Your cotton chemise and your white drawers." His hand was faster. He was sweating. God was I hot. "Only when you are entirely bare may you approach him, touch him, hold him. There will be no need for words, for explanation. You will reach out to him in the universal tongue. He will understand, he will know what to do. Trust me." Yes. Of course. "Do it, Sarah. Show me. I want to see how much you love this man." My hands were shaking. I could barely control them. Sir Michael was pumping his cock furiously under the white handkerchief. My face was flushed with arousal and need. Carefully, delicately, I began to unfasten the buttons of my gown. "God, Sarah," James gasped. "William is such a lucky guy. If I had met you first..." "Then you would have done nothing. You are not free, James. You are betrothed." Neither of us had spoken. I pulled off the gown and laid it upon an empty chair. Underneath, I was wearing a white satin petticoat cut low about my bust. James was immediately much taken with the frills about my bosom. "I would have broken my engagement," he panted. "Nonsense," I contradicted, pulling at my petticoat. "You have honor, James. You will marry Molly, and you will make her truly happy." Something was happening underneath the handkerchief, and being a married woman I had a very good picture as to what this might be. James pulled the cloth down over his cock like a sock or a glove, permitting me to conjecture as to the beast beneath. Reaching under my shift I grabbed hold of my drawers and pulled them over my thighs, my calves and then finally my ankles. "Please," I begged, teetering on first one leg, and then the other. Damn. My drawers had become tangled in my shoes. This wasn't very ladylike, but at last they came free. "Please," I pleaded a second time, pointing towards his handkerchief. "Please use these." James hesitantly took my drawers and lifted them to his nose. Dear God! What heavenly madness! He's smelling my aroma, sensing its warmth and pondering where it was created. "I want to fuck you," he growled. His voice was so low and deep, it made me shiver with anticipation. I could feel how much he meant those simple words. "I know," I whimpered. Dear God, were we going to do it, after all? Was he going to make me go all the way? Was I actually to be an adulteress? "I shouldn't," he groaned, pulling off his neck cloth and throwing it to the floor. "It isn't right. William is my friend. And Molly, poor Molly. I'm promised to Molly." Of course. Molly. I was forgetting Molly. How could I take my revenge on poor Molly too? I bent down, my titties almost falling out of my corset, my perfume washing across him, my fingertips just managing to touch the cloth upon his lap. I kissed him softly on the cheek, and then whispered in his ear. "Please, James. Carry me upstairs. Please, I need you. Will you take me to bed?" He kissed me tenderly, then watched me continue to undress. It didn't take long. I had only my stays and my chemise to remove. I did it proudly, boldly, and then stood still for him to feast his gaze upon my naked body. I luxuriated in his attention. I could feel the warmth of his stare on every exposed inch of my skin and it was such heavenly bliss. He lifted me to my room. Perhaps the servants saw us, perhaps not: I didn't particularly care. It was a sweet morning, a long morning in which we made each other exquisitely happy. But we didn't fuck. For Molly's sake. And neither of us spoke a word. That evening, William told me with great uncontrolled rage that Sir Michael had filed bankruptcy proceedings against him that morning and that I should prepare my valise. I cast him a weak enigmatic smile. "Yes, William." ****** I sat on the bare deck in my bare feet, watching as my Negro ate the stale bread that I had brought. He glanced up at me occasionally. I saw that he was curious, suspicious, and yet, yes, thankful too. I offered him some water from a tin cup. It was thick and the surface was covered in green slime. He had to strain it through his teeth as he drank, and yet he was so grateful to receive this meager gift. He smiled and nodded and when he did that, those dark eyes sparkled with life and hope. His overflowing gratitude made my heart ache, because I was just so helpless. I wanted to reach out and comfort him, to ease his pain, but there was so little that I could do. I knew that whatever I did, however I helped, the end would remain the same: they would still hang him when we reached the Indies. Well, at least, I thought, I can get him there. That in itself would be an accomplishment. The corpses of three more slaves had been tossed over the side that morning, dropped into the churning briny waters by two of their own kind. The sailors now considered the hold cursed and would no longer go anywhere near it. There had been no service: no memorial or any offering of prayers. It had been an almost insignificant event, remarked on by no one. But in my heart I offered a quiet word of remembrance to these poor creatures whose suffering had been so mercifully concluded. It had been a man and two women that had died. I wouldn't have known, except that I asked Major Brindley. God only knows what conditions were like down there. Mrs. Brindley might be prepared to enter the hold, but I was not. My role was here, up on deck. Perhaps, I thought, I ought to consider my Negro as blessed in that he had the elements to house him rather than that hellhole in the hold. If only the elements had not been so hostile of late. The sun roasted us during the day, and during the night, I could feel his frozen misery, hear his soft groaning. Each night as I lay lashed into my bed, I would stare into the blackness and I see him shivering pitifully, alone and yet not alone, up here on deck. I couldn't help reflecting, as I watched him eating. It was strange, we were each slaves in our own separate way, he and I: he to the white man, and I to William. Perhaps that was why I felt a strange camaraderie to this exotic creature that ate my bread and drank my water. Perhaps it was also why I was so attracted to him. "Of course, you know that I'm married," I said. He didn't understand me, I knew that, but it helped to talk. "It's marriage, but it isn't a real marriage; not really, not truly." I had with me a small piece of apple pie wrapped in muslin. I had stolen it earlier from the galley. I unwrapped it with a generous smile, and offered it to him, to my Negro. He reached out and took it in his strong black hands, and thanked me with his warm brown eyes. "William treats his dogs better than he treats me," I confided. "You would understand that. I know you would. You understand what it's like to be shunned and mistreated: to be treated as nothing, even worse than nothing. He fusses over those dogs and gives them such affection and love. But not me. He's never loved me like that." I carefully folded the muslin into four, and tucked it away in the sleeve of my dress. "I could never respect him," I said sadly. "Not now. He beats me with my marriage vows, whips me. He makes them into a heavy burden that I'm forced to carry like a leaden balloon. Is that marriage? No it's not, not at all. I trusted him. But now I'm just a possession that he can order to submit, to love and most important to him, someone that he can order to obey." Of course, my Negro didn't respond apart from making native noises, but it was a comfort to be able to talk, to have someone that I could confide in. I leaned forward and touched him softly on the arm. I was so pleased that he didn't pull away. "There's something I would like to do," I said confidentially, "Something, I hope you won't mind, something I want to try." My dreams had been changing of late. It's so difficult to understand why we dream the things that we do. James had disappeared entirely. Perhaps he was no longer looking for me in his own dreams, perhaps he was becoming used to Molly, or perhaps the distance between us was now too great: I don't know. What I do know is that my Negro was making the odd appearance, usually just before I awoke. And in these dreams he spoke to me, he comforted me, he never pushed me faster than I was prepared to travel. And when he spoke, it was always in English, a language that he had mastered very well. I held my breath. Did I have sufficient courage? Ever since we had set sail, everyone had kept repeating to me, over and over, that Negroes aren't actually men in the real sense of the word. Okay, so if it was acceptable for me to watch Negroes mating that first day, then what could be wrong with a little voyeuristic activity today? My fingers stroked his chest, traced a line down towards that sorrowful piece of sackcloth. His hand caught hold of my wrist, preventing me from touching it. He was suspicious. "Please," I begged. "I just want to wash it." I pointed to the cask of water. I didn't think that he would allow me to remove that garment, and so I was overjoyed when he did. He's beginning to trust me. I stared down at his penis. Like yesterday, it was quite flaccid. I must be truthful: I was a little disappointed. I thought back to what Mrs. Brindley had said about it only becoming hard for a black bitch. Maybe she did know what she was talking about, after all. But, it wasn't important. I wanted to help him whether he found me attractive or not. I might not be able to do much to help this beast; it might yet be that he would be hanged when we reached the Indies. However, in the meantime, I was determined to do what I could to make his life more comfortable. I took hold of his loincloth and pulled myself to the cask. My Negro was watching me, hope as ever shining bright on his face. I clambered inside, bathing quickly and then rubbing his loincloth hard against my own bathing dress, beating it with water, driving out the stains and the sweat. God it was filthy. When I was finished, I clambered out of the cask and wrung out of his small insignificant garment as much water as I could. He was still watching me. Again, I remembered Mrs. Brindley's comment, how could I ever forget it? One last attempt. Let me prove to myself once and for all whether or not he could only get hard for a black bitch. It was time to put Mrs. Brindley's mouth to the test. My bathing dress was wet from being submerged in the cask. It hugged my body tightly, accentuating and revealing. What should I do? I remembered James and what I had done for him that morning. That had worked, but how could I undress on deck? That would be going too far. There had to be another way. I stood nervously considering what I should do. He was watching. I smiled. I wasn't scared of him; I wasn't fearful of him looking at me. I know that the water hugged my body revealing more of my womanly charms than was proper. I wanted to be sexy for him, to act like an uncivilized savage. I placed my hands over my breasts, cupping them, offering myself, pushing them towards him. For a moment, in my imagination I could see myself through his eyes, and I found that I was looking at a stranger, beautiful, radiant and wonderfully sexy. I wasn't wearing any underthings and so my hardening nipples were poking through the fabric of my bathing dress rather obscenely. Could those really be my breasts under that cloth, so clearly outlined and visible? Were those really my hips fondly embraced by that negligible trifling? Dear God, was that really my dark mound so clearly discernable under the semi-transparent cotton? If it was, then I was glad. I wanted to show off. I wanted him to see me and desire me and lust for me the way that I was lusting for him. Dear God, I don't believe I just said that. His cock was beginning to stir. What next? I turned my back on him and bent forward, wriggling my butt and concealing from him my own desire. Dear God, what is happening to me? Deep within me there is fire in my belly. What can I do? Please help me. Merciful heavens, I'm not sure that I can control it. I pulled my dress lewdly into the crack of my ass. I'm not even as civilized as a savage, I thought. Look at the way that I'm acting, I'm acting like one of William's dogs, one of the bitches, in heat. Bent double, and with my dress wet and sticking to me, I could only imagine what he must have been seeing. Yet still it wasn't enough. I was determined to go even further, much further. "You must show him how much you love him," I thought. That's what James had said. "Otherwise he will pass on and be gone forever." I couldn't breathe. The tension was too much. What was he thinking, my Negro? Was I just humiliating myself? Was Mrs. Brindley right? I pulled the skirt of my dress up toward my waist. Dear Jesus, what am I about to do? How can I actually want to do this? Mama, papa, if you could see me now! The skirt was heavy and wet and didn't want to come. I was a married woman. I was William's wife. How could I act in this way? I hauled the material over my thighs, up to my butt and then to my waist. I slid my feet apart, knowing that now I must be entirely open, that bent over like this he must be able to see everything, that he would be able to see right inside. This was one of the few things I could honestly give. It was my gift to him, not stolen from the galley or demanded by a master. This was truly, honestly, a present given from the depths of my heart. I stood there for several seconds, accepting his gaze. Dear God, if only he knew what he was doing to me. But perhaps he did: I was so wet, any longer like this and my juices were sure to trickle across my thighs and down my legs. I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to look. I had to know. Did he find me attractive? Could I do for him as much as he was doing for me? I turned, standing, holding my skirts. My spirits soared. He was sat on that horrible stool with his cock erect and throbbing. He wasn't touching it or manually helping it to grow. It was all, that thing, entirely down to me. I smiled at him, looking down happily at his erection, and handed him his loincloth. He accepted it, returning my smile. You are wrong, Mrs. Brindley, and so are you Lady Caroline. He finds _me_ attractive; he wants this white bitch that I have become. All day long I fantasized about that cock. But it wasn't the cock, not in itself; it was what it implied. This heavyweight beast found me sexy. While Lady Caroline and Mrs. Brindley were bathing, I found myself a quiet corner, down below in the smell and the darkness, and I played with myself until the ache had subsided. It was a beginning. We couldn't talk, this Negro and I; there was such an impossible divide between us. But this, it was a start, something that I could work on. Later that morning, William spoke to me and I didn't hear him at all. At the time I was feeding him porridge. I had made it for him especially. He could barely swallow it because his throat was so constricted. His limbs were also numb. He was feverish and his skin was blistering. He was the merest shadow of the man that had boarded this ship. "I'm dying, Sarah," he whimpered laughably, reaching out and grasping my wrist. "I know it, Sarah. I sense it." "Nonsense," I contradicted, shoveling the reddish cereal into his unaccommodating mouth with my free hand. "It's true," he insisted between mouthfuls. His strength was certainly ebbing away. His grasp on my wrist was wonderfully weak. "I keep seeing things," he sobbed. "Peculiar things. Omens. There is a man with a black cowl and a sharp sickle. He stands over there in the corner, by your curtain. Look. Sarah. Please. Can't you see him? He never leaves me alone. When you're here he shuts up, but when you're gone he won't keep quiet. He keeps me awake and he laughs at me and tells me such terrible things." "William, you're imagining it," I said unsympathetically, glancing impatiently towards the corner. "There's no one there." I tried to force a final spoonful of porridge down his ungrateful gullet. But he wouldn't take it. There was fear written all over his face: such fear. I had no doubt but that he really could see this fiend. "We'll talk about it later," I said, pulling myself to my feet. "Don't leave me, Sarah," he pleaded, sobbing pitifully. "Please don't, please don't leave me alone with him. You don't know... You can't imagine... When you go, if you leave me, then he'll start to say things, evil things. He won't let me alone." My heart was hard. William had made it so. I mumbled my apologies and pushed myself into the corridor. The whale oil lamps were flickering weakly, casting shadows that flowed backwards and forwards with the heaving of our creaking ship. There was a bucket at the far end of the corridor. It was half full of water. I wanted to wash William's plate. I had to get out of that room. It was so small, cramped and depressing. I pulled myself along the corridor, passed Lord Edward's room and then the Major's. I could hear voices inside each of these rooms. The Major and Mrs. Brindley were talking softly; Lady Caroline was being rather rude to Lord Edward. I got to the far end. It was seawater, of course, that was in the bucket, but that would do. Washing the plate gave me a chance to breathe, a chance to be alone. When I got back to the State Room, I found William crying uncontrollably, delirious with fever, shouting with wide open eyes at his imagined ghoul. I offered him some water and rinsed his flushed face with a towel, but my mind was elsewhere. Imagine; I could have so much power over an African savage! "They lied," I whispered to William. I didn't care what he knew now, whether he might piece together the pieces. I didn't expect him to answer; his throat was too sore. I kissed him gently on his unshaven cheek and spoke softly into his ear. "It's true, my love. It hardens for a white bitch as easily as for a black one." End Of Part Two The Ignominy Run by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com) January 2000 -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+